Cast Out of Eden

I don't even remember this being taken - Spaniard, Drunky & Bad Influence

The night that I first tried to leave India was emotional to say the least. My travel companion, a beautiful Spaniard who I am so blessed to have met, caught the brunt of it. If anyone has seen me at a wedding or post-barn dance, they will have an idea of what I was like. Essentially, I was having a temper tantrum fueled by one too many Kingfisher beers. Xabier the Spaniard (yup, that’s his full name), and I had spent my last night having great conversation over cheap beer in Bombay. At one point, a friend from my cohort and probably the worst influence ever, walked by randomly and joined us. Things got a little fuzzy for me after that but I remember back at our hotel, packing for my 4am flight, and throwing rupees around and crying not-so-prettily. There was ranting involved. I think I threw money directly at my Spaniard while yelling “Take it, I don’t need it anymore because I’m LEAVING. WAHHHHHHHHH”. Not really my finest moment. 

But Xabier was patient, and with a gentle kiss to my forehead, he put me in a taxi. I cried the entire hour to the airport. My driver pretended not to notice the emotional cripple in his backseat and happily pointed out landmarks along the way. With a heavy heart, I entered the airport, praying for a natural disaster to impede me from getting on my plane. I checked my dirty backpack with Korean Air, sullenly accepted my boarding passes and found the nearest seat to sink into.

I don’t know if I consciously sabotaged myself, but what I do know is that at 4:50am, when I woke up from an impromptu airport nap, I had officially become my own natural disaster. I had missed my flight. I have never been so panicked and simultaneously self-loathing in my life. The man next to me, sporting a huge turban and the sweetest mustache ever, was taken aback when the sleeping pile of booziness next to him jumped out of her seat and flew down the hall cursing loudly. I'm not sure what I was thinking, but I thought that going through security was a good idea. They stopped me there and pointed out that I was an hour late for my flight. And so began an intercultural exchange that I will never live down. I was dragged throughout the airport, into back offices, scary security rooms and all over the concourse as they shook their heads (no Indian head bobbles now) and tried to figure out what to do with me. I was apologizing the entire time, berating myself for my own stupidity and still in shock. I don't miss planes. I am hyper-organized and would never miss my plane. Was this a dream? My dad is going to kill me. Staff and airport security spoke in Hindi and only occasionally addressed the panicked white girl, usually to ask "why you so stupid Canadian?" 

I sat in a room of attendants while it was sorted out. They thought it was hilarious that I just sat myself down and passed out, not even considering finding my terminal to at least sleep there. I, on the other hand, didn't find it hilarious. But in connecting with them, I felt suddenly like everything would be ok. This is India after all. I had heard the words 'In India, anything is possible" all over the country whether I was trying to buy my way onto a packed train or covertly asked someone where I could find a decent steak around here (turns out, Pondicherry!) I slowly calmed down, and began to listen to their stories about their families, their friends and spouses. I quickly learned that they all wanted to come with me to Canada. They asked me if it truly was as beautiful as people say (damn straight it is!) and if there were many Indians where I lived. They asked how much I would pay them to clean my home or drive my car for me. Most had friends or family living in Toronto. They asked if I had any single friends who would like an Indian wife to cook for him, or perhaps an Indian husband to make the pretty babies with? I had such a great time joking with these people that I almost forgot about my bonehead move.

Gateway to India, Bombay Harbour

But this bonehead move was the best drunken mistake I have ever made. Korean Air was amazing, and laughingly teased the sleepy, drunk Canadian as they sorted out my fate. As it turns out, the same flight was leaving in two days. I could be on that one. They didn’t charge me anything. They sent me back into Mumbai as the sun was rising over the hazy city and I felt such peace. I had my carry-on luggage, my hand sanitizer, the clothes on my back and I was ecstatic. When I arrived at the hotel, Xabier opened the door, boxer-clad and sleepy eyed. But even in the early morning hours his grin and broken English line “I knew you would be back”, really cinched the fact that I was where I belonged.

Two days later, and much more sober and emotionally level, I did leave India. I was ready. I took in all the sights I wanted and made some beautiful new friends. And when I arrived at the airport, I felt like a rockstar. Everyone knew my name! It was like the t.v. show “Cheers”, only with semi-automatic rifles and baggage tags. People teasingly asked if I had a nap that day. Others asked how many beers I had consumed and if my father was as mad at me as I had thought he would be (turns out no, he’s awesome!) Korean Air staff even found me, pre-flight, as I was greedily eating my last masala dosa. They wanted to ensure I wasn’t nodding off in a corner somewhere. And when the wheels pulled up from the Mumbai airport tarmac, I was at peace. I was going home. Home to my family, my cat, my home and the awesome people I am so lucky to call friends.

Taj Mahal Palace hotel, site of 2008 terrorist attack and one beautiful monument

Moving on!

With that first, slightly "downer" of a post, I am ready to move on and share with you the brilliance that is India through these weary western eyes of mine.

I left Victoria, BC with a third full backpack and absolutely no idea of what to expect when I landed. Luckily, I had 24 hours in transit and several textbooks to prepare me. My first glimpse of India was by the light of a red half moon over a sleeping Mumbai. My apologies to the 80-something Indian grandmother sitting beside me as my face was glued to the window, my breath not half as steamy as the warm water droplets forming already on the outside of the glass. Customs was simple, and I was delighted to receive my first ever Indian Head Waggle (which I am conducting my first field study on in Ahmedabad) from the customs desk when I asked my first of many, dumb questions. "What do I do now?"

Flying over the Pacific towards Seoul Icheon Intl Airport

I wasn't "feeling" Mumbai at that precise moment, I wanted to escape south, where I expected less crowds and a more tropical vibe. Buying a ticket to Trivandrum, Kerala proved to be my first challenge as A) I couldn't pronounce the name right and had to grab my Rough Guide to India handbook (Loser moment #1) and B) I wanted to pay with credit card, but the three men behind what seemed more like a lemonade stand than a ticket desk, said cash only, or "we add mega fine to your Visa".
 I wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound good so I forked over 6000 rupees and stood in line for the free terminal shuttle.

The shuttle turned out to be kinda scary. A decrepit bus pulled up behind the dimly lit airport hanger and I, along with about 20 men, got on. Everyone stared at me like I had three heads, possibly because I was white and female but more likely because I was sweating so much I could feel it dripping down from the backs of my knees onto my heel. The shuttle brought me to the domestic terminal, but not the one I needed to be at. So at 2am, I lugged my bag around a dark parking lot filled with sleeping rickshaw drivers and wild dogs. I didn't really know where I was going, but I figured I would end up somewhere near the terminal. Many drivers stirred as I hobbled past and offered me a ride. Luckily I said no because the terminal was about 20 ft around the corner (sneaksy rickshaw drivers). The security at this airport were pretty intense, and wouldn't let me in the building until I produced my passport, visa and submitted to a metal detector and physical search in the "Ladies Only" line.

Mumbai Domestic Airport

Waiting for the plane was an experience. I was the only white person on my plane, and was therefore somewhat of a curiosity to my fellow passengers. To escape the stares, I went up to the "slumber lounge" where I was alone until six 30-something Indian men came up as well and sat on either side of me, and across as well. In an empty lounge, this felt odd but also comforting. They chatted amongst themselves in Hindi, never taking notice of the Canadian who was happily re-organizing her backpack for the 20th time (OCD knows no borders or timezones). About an hour went by before their plane was called and they got up, one by one, and said good-bye to me, as if we had been chatting all that time. I don't know why, but I felt invincible in that moment.

Eventually my plane was called, and along with 200 Indians, I boarded Air India with Trivandrum as my destination. My travel companion was a business man who asked what would be my traveler's script for my time in India: Was I married? Did I have children? What did I do for a living? How much did that pay? How much did I pay for my ticket? Could he have a picture of me? I asked similiar questions of him and found out that he was married, had two daughters who were recently married, and didn't want any grandkids just yet. He made me laugh over the two hour flight because he called the stewardess 8 times in such a small amount of time. Mostly to ask for more water, or more milk for his coffee or if he could get up while the light was on because he "really had to go". The stewardess was stunning, and patient ;)

Trivandrum is the capital of India's most southern state, Kerala. The airport is surrounded by lush vegetation, colourful birds and grey necked ravens. Guards armed with automatic rifles glare intensely as cabs and rickshaws battle out front. A few bejeweled ladies were keen to know where I was from and if I would stay with them next time I was in India (Ok!).

I cabbed into the city center for 300 rupees, past muddy cricket pitches, tethered goats and horned bovine chewing lazily in the fields. Once out of the rural areas, I was shocked by the pace and hoards of people crowded onto the packed earth streets, not to mention the smells and the way the air clings to your skin like PVC. There is no way to describe it, so I won't try. I didn't even navigate it for the firstafternoon I was here, I just found somewhere to sleep and eat (TeeKay Palace on Aristo Rd) and waited for my lens to shift. More on city life after I've had about 12 hours of sleep...